the world will never find you
by therewithasmile
Summary: "By the way, Soul." He pauses, turning to Blake once more. His best friend's grin is wide and sincere, though the lighting made it seem less so; sinister. "Happy Halloween." / Oneshot; (Tokyo) Ghoul AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Happy Halloween!_

_Trigger Warning: Gore, blood, violence. _

* * *

><p>"Nah man, I really wouldn't go – if I were you."<p>

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"_Nah_," Blake, who'd somehow managed to occupy the entire couch, _and _ottoman, kicks up his feet and takes a swig of soda.

Soul, of course, is used to this behavior. Blake would stop by - on good days, with some form of notice – and they'd crash, play videogames, eat pizza, the routine. Today would've been no different, had Soul not received the invitation beforehand. "It's a _costume _party, who has time to dress up anyway? Oh right, rich folk," he scoffs, cutting off Soul's protest faster than he could process.

_Rich folk. _The tone in which Blake says those words is menacing, incredulous. _Rich folk. _"I'm as much a _rich folk _as you are, Blake," Soul counters. And he means every word.

His best friend merely shrugs.

Well, it wasn't like _he _could stop the outside invitations. For what it was worth, though, he'd cut all ties with his family.

Soul Evans.

The estranged youngest brother, who'd stormed out of his house at the tender age of thirteen and hadn't had contact with his family since.

Blake is a different story. He wasn't born into nobility or class; he was just a teen trying to get by. Honestly, Soul envies him. It means freedom. It means being able to do things without being an _Evans_ – and one that ran away, no less. Maybe that's why they hang around each other – they both didn't have anywhere else to go.

Normally, Soul would've ignored these invitations. But the host family was one he couldn't ignore. _Albarn. _Once, before he'd decided enough was enough, his mother had tried to introduce him to the Albarn heiress. _She's a real beauty, _he was told, _and from one of the strongest families, too._

His mother had meant _that_ literally.

Regardless of running away or not, he'd known the name. How could he not? The current heir was famous – for whatever reason or the other, everyone _knew _Spirit Albarn. Thus, from association, everyone knew _Maka _Albarn, too. It was almost as if she shied away from the limelight around the same time he did – for the only glimpses he'd seen of this exclusive heiress were on TV, when they were interviewing Spirit.

There she'd be, in the shadows. A kindred spirit – one who didn't want the fame, the fortune that came with being of the higher class. Especially in _this _day and age, when the killings only grew more frequent.

But the Albarns were always ruthless. Consistently the head of the CCG, though Spirit may be a womanizer, no one ever denied the Albarn family's strength. His record – when it came to fighting ghouls, anyways- was spotless.

"It'll be fine, Blake, you should come."

It's honestly strange for _Soul _to be the one trying to get Blake to go out – it was his best friend who'd insist they'd hit the night life, go to the strip clubs, get black out drunk, because that's what _common folk _do. It was a _costume party – _normally Blake couldn't resist those! But his best friend only shrugged and flipped through another channel, the sound of dizzying static ringing loudly in his ears.

"You rich folk are always protected. _I'm _going to hide in here." His friend scrambles up from the couch, catching Soul's eye. "Ghouls crawl around at night - not all of us can have round-the-clock protection."

Soul could easily distinguish the teasing tone in Blake's voice, so he merely scoffs and waves him away.

"Have fun, though. And send my regards to the pigtails."

"She only wears her hair like that to look inconspicuous," Soul sighs as he fixes the fangs into his teeth. He could pull off vampire, with his naturally red eyes and white hair. Another mark of being an Evans that isn't so easily disguised. He honestly envies Miss Albarn, too, for she could definitely pull off incognito if she so desired.

It was something the he and his best friend did often; when Spirit was being interviewed, they'd watch in amusement as he tried to hit on the interviewer. Here and there she'd appear in the same frame, and the two of them would call her out – and her father – for being who they were. It was fun, it made him feel _included_, when all his upbringing, he felt as if he never belonged.

But he had to remember it was all an act, for _he _was rich too, despite the disassociation. And he couldn't help but to wonder if Blake, behind his back, made fun of him, too.

But he pushes the thoughts out of his brain and he picks up the invitation. Address clearly marked, he cracks open the door.

"By the way, Soul." He pauses, turning to Blake once more. His best friend's grin is wide and sincere, though the lighting made it seem less so; sinister.

"Happy Halloween."

Soul rolls his eyes and closes the door behind him. He pauses a moment, letting out a sigh he didn't know he was holding in, before he looks up at the flickering apartment light. "You can come out now, Mifune."

And at his words, the lithe man steps out from around the corner. He's tall, stoic, a briefcase in his hand that makes him appear as any other businessman in the busy district. He gives the smallest of bows.

"Forgive me, Master Evans. Blake isn't coming with you…?"

Soul sighs and wiggles his jaw, the false teeth rubbing against his cheeks. "No – so I want you to stay here tonight."

Mifune's eyes, normally cold and calm, widens a touch at his words. "Master Evans, I cannot do that. I am under strict orders from your family to keep an eye on you at all times –"

"- And I'm telling you, make sure Blake is alright, okay?" Soul lowers his voice, though making sure to keep his authority true. "He's not coming, so it means he can be _in danger_. When he's with me, I know you'll protect him too."

He sees the look in his bodyguard's eyes, a conflicted understanding colouring his irises, though concern still alight in his gaze. Soul puts a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Look, I'm going to the Albarns – no doubt they're going to have round the clock protection. Blake is here, _alone_. Ghouls will be on the prowl, and I can only trust _you _to keep him safe."

Conflict grows in the man's gaze, but he finally sighs, gently removing his hand from his shoulder. "I understand, Master Evans. But I then have one selfish request; please return home immediately after the party. Save me the heart attack."

"You have my word, Mifune," Soul responds coolly as his bodyguard dips into another deep bow. The man then repositions himself in the blind spot of his apartment door and Soul retreats down the stairs to the awaiting taxi.

* * *

><p>The Albarn estate is as impressive in person as it was on TV. Yet, as he looks at it, something about it is particularly eerie. Perhaps it reminds him of days past, but the activity milling around the house is enough to snap him out of it.<p>

He strides past the crowds, ignoring the head turns and the whispers of his name. He ignores the hushed chatter, the muted discussions about how he's an _Evans_ and that they haven't seen him in five years. _This _was precisely why he stays incognito; he hates the unwanted attention.

He mills around the h'ordeuvres – some _amuse bouches _that he hadn't tasted since he were a kid. Having lived off a consistent diet of pizza and pop and anything that _wasn't fancy_, he isn't so sure his stomach would agree with the thick flavours.

So he pinches his nose and looks around for something that looks more _inviting, _past the caviar and the pate.

"These things not to your tastes, either?"

Her voice is quiet, yet crystal clear, and he looks up to meet a brilliant emerald gaze. Well, half emerald – as one eye is black, decorated with red irises. He can't resist the smirk that almost creeps onto his lips.

"Isn't dressing as a one-eyed ghoul pushing it?"

Maka Albarn laughs – and it's a bell of a sound. With one gloved hand, she covers her lips in a dainty fashion. She then shrugs. "It's called a _lazy costume_, seeing as ghouls don't look any different from the real world. Am I right, mister vampire?"

He can't help but to touch his teeth and she laughs again. He shrugs past the charm and holds out a hand. "I'm Soul-"

"- Evans. I know." She grasps him with a gloved hand, smiling. "I'll never forget the boy I was supposed to meet three years ago."

His own smile falters, and for a moment he forgets all these _rich people parties_ were all about formality – pretenses, for he senses a slight bit of maliciousness behind her otherwise disarmingly sincere tone. She holds out one glass flute, filled halfway with sparkling champagne. He accepts the glass graciously as she picks one up herself. "And to address your earlier concerns, don't be silly, one eyed ghouls are a myth. I should know, after all," she says, a hint of pride evident in her tone.

_Of course she knows, _he can't help but to think, as she sniffs and picks up some cornet-shaped pastry and places it on a plate. If she takes it, he assumes it couldn't be too offensive, so he mirrors her actions and finds himself following her.

She leads him to the back and onto a balcony, where she sighs and stretches out along the railings. He slides his hand into his pocket, carefully balancing his own pathetically empty plate beside her. Miss Albarn's eyes follow him as he takes a spot beside her, and her question may have seemed innocent, but the intent behind it betrays her. "So, you drop off the radar after I'm told I'm supposed to meet you by my Papa, why is that?"

Soul sighs, his brain struggling to put it into words. "I never wanted a famed life, honestly. Public scrutiny is nothing I ever desired."

"But you came here."

"I couldn't ignore your invitation," he says, and though his tone is light, he catches her eye and holds it. She sighs, something in the sound is sympathetic, understanding. But he decides to change the subject, because dwelling on the past wasn't why he came here. "So where's your father, anyways?"

"My papa?" her face suddenly sours, her tone turning dark. "He's upstairs. With _two _women." Her voice drips with resentment, but it's only a momentary lapse of concentration, for the unpleasantries disappear with a polite cough into her fist. "I wish he didn't make it so obvious. Of course no one will remember him as a womanizing swine, and only as the head of the CCG - as he should be remembered."

Her words remind him how, once again, he's dealing with the heiress of the Commission Counter Ghoul, and though maybe she was intended to be his fiancée, the matter is that he ran away from that commitment before he'd even met her. But seeing her now, with flowing platinum hair, light yellow dress, warm green eyes (save one) – she was absolutely stunning, and charming in her own right. Even if she's dressed as a one-eyed ghoul.

"So you dressed as a ghoul because..."

"It's easy," she shrugs. "I know a guy – he made me the contact. And besides," her voice turns a little serious. "I'd think the best place for anyone to hide, is right under their biggest enemy's nose, isn't that right?"

He doesn't know if he agrees with that, but he shrugs anyway and takes a sip of champagne thoughtfully.

She watches him, her face betraying no emotion as he swallows before placing his glass down. "I.. don't understand ghouls," Soul continues, if only to keep the conversation going. "They all seem senseless to me, and the sudden attack on the higher class – it's partially why I dissociated myself from it all."

"And yet, you're here," she comments, though her tone is thoughtful.

He shrugs. "I could use a break."

Miss Albarn laughs then, as she swirls her own glass. "Ghouls. I've been surrounded by them my whole life – and I think not all of them just want to eat eat _kill kill. _It's a generalization."

He listens intently but the sudden turn in conversation sours him. Is Maka Albarn a… sympathizer? _Impossible, _he thinks, because she's next to become a full-fledged investigator, and judging by her lineage, she should be the last person who would sympathize.

She seems to sense his discomfort, for she plunges on, "I do think some ghouls try to coexist."

"They shouldn't," Soul says firmly. He's seen the reports, watched people die because of ghouls. They were all monsters – they'd all kill on the spot. There _is _no rhyme or reason, their only instinct is to kill. To charm, befriend, and then stab in the back, like some sadistic _freak_.

But he doesn't voice those thoughts, as she only regards him thoughtfully. She shrugs. "I want to try to make a difference. Regardless of what that is."

_She's really something, _he can't help but to think, and he knows if he'd met her all those years ago, his past self would've lucked out. To be betrothed to a woman of such class, of knowledge – it would've been an honour.

He loses track of the time, spending almost the entire night exclusively talking to her. Her laugh is infectious and her smile even more so, and he can't help but to realize that maybe, just maybe, he'd made a mistake. He wants to know her more, and to understand her thoughts, to truly realize how compatible they are, aside from polite conversations and small gestures.

But time wears on, regardless of his intent, and soon he knew it was time to leave. They both get up from where they were sitting, and she gives him a little curtsy. "We should talk again soon, Mister Evans."

"Soul is honestly fine," he responds, as she gives him another dazzling grin.

"Then by all means, call me Maka – hearing Miss Albarn makes me think of my mama." Her voice thickens, as if that's all she has to say about it, and he merely nods, takes her hand, and plants a light kiss. A faint blush colours her cheeks despite her attempt to swallow it.

"I should see you home," she says, her voice suddenly lower. He's not sure what she's implying, but he shakes his head politely.

"That's quite alright, I'll be fine."

Her one, visible eye darkens. "Are you sure?"

Soul allows a smile to cross his features once more. "Yes, but thank you."

He turns and begins to duck around the leaving people, but her gloved fingers catch his hand mid-step. He pauses and turns, facing her faintly blushing cheeks. Her voice is a little abashed, and her voice is careful. "You know, if you _were_ to be wed to me, that day five years ago… I would've said yes."

He doesn't quite understand why but his heart thuds once, and he can't help but to smile in response. She looks conflicted, as if she truly _wanted _to see him off, but instead, her voice suddenly turns serious. "Hurry home. It's Halloween, the ghouls _will _be out tonight."

The words echo in his head, even as he says his goodbyes and rushes out the doors, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

It's only when he's halfway down the alleyway does he have a sudden realization.

She never touched that cornet she had on her plate.

* * *

><p>The glowing phone screen tells him that Maka Albarn is adopted.<p>

Granted, it was tabloid news, but she was never _born _into the Albarn family.

And then he realizes: realizes that the pounding of his heart isn't due to his excitement - his attraction. It was his instincts, telling him to run.

So he began to pick up the pace.

And somehow, unsurprisingly, he heard a smattering of footsteps behind him.

_Shit, shit shit shit shit shit shit!_

He weaves through the people, trying his hardest to get away, but suddenly something grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside – a tentacle – a glowing limb – a _kagune._

This strange _organ_, pulsing, faintly warm, and yet sharp – deadly, is connected to something. _Someone. _A figure. A _ghoul_.

His heart pounds in his brain and panic settles in. _Why me? How? What did I do?_ At his attempts to pry off the organ from his arm, it suddenly retracts – but he knows it's not because of him.

Instead, the figure approaches him.

He stares, because something about the physique is oddly familiar. From the dim rays of moonlight, he can make out a black mask – the shape of a star, exposing the mouth. It grins suddenly, and from behind the slits of the mask, he can make two, very black eyes staring hungrily back.

And then it clicks.

"Black Star… _Blake?"_

The silhouette takes a step forward.

He couldn't breathe. No. _No. _Not his best friend, the man he'd known since birth, not his _brother_. It couldn't be – it was _impossible! _He knew Blake better than anyone, and if he – _if he_… "Since when?"

"Always."

And then, out of nowhere, a thick black tentacle emerges from the ghoul's back, the same one that had pulled him here. It grabs his leg and pulls him toward the ghoul. And he's helpless, _helpless, _to stop himself from being dragged, even as he scratches and tears at the pavement, nothing slows his body as Blake mercilessly grabs him.

"Do you have _any _idea how _infuriating _it is, to wait around for you?" His voice is a deadly calm, a stark contrast from the loud obnoxiousness he was used to. "Do you know _how many pizza slices I've had to vomit? _How many _other dirt scum I had to eat, _while waiting for your _stupid guard_ to stop following us?"

He bares his teeth then, and from the haze of his vision, Soul can see saliva dripping down his mouth. "Every time I think I have you drunk enough, you always slip away – who the _fuck _knows what you do, but _fuck_ I have to kill someone else."

He tries to fight for words, but instead, blood gurgles and falls out of his mouth. "_My.. friend – _Blake, you were my _friend -!"_

"Do you know how _annoying _you are?" Black Star responds, and the first time, Soul realizes _just how little he knows about him. _"Pretending to be boisterous, pretending to love pizza, having to get you black out drunk so I could go out and hunt – if not because _fucking _Mifune is always keeping tabs on you?"

He's _dangling _and Blake's _cackling_, but the laughter suddenly edges with insanity. "I just want one – _one _- taste. One taste! It would make up for all that _shit _you call food, for all that _tar _you call drinks, it would be _fine!_" His voice teeters on the verge of madness, and the teen flips his head back – and the black wig falls off his head.

His hair, even in the waning moonlight, has always been a shocking blue.

He gives one more grin, red from his most recent victim glinting against his teeth.

"Did I mention? Mifune tastes _quite _delicious."

And that's when he loses it, a scream comes hurling from his throat. This was it. He is going to _die. _He is going to die as the outcast of the Evans family, devoured by Black Star, whose identity no one knows. His best friend, Blake, would go on living, would express lament at his funeral, who would say that they can't find his body –that he would've died, too, if he'd gone with Soul that night.

He'd deliver the words, one of the last people to see him, and he'd stand there, as his killer.

Pain explodes from his body as Black Star flings him to the side, each collision against empty barrels searing through his back like fire. He feels the wind blow out of his lungs, and it fucking _kills _but he says nothing, only clenches his teeth as he feels warmth begin to spill from his back.

And then he's being dragged, _again_, maniacal laughter filling his ears. He feels his side rip open against the splinters of wood, each piece piercing into his flesh. Blake – no, _Black Star – _reels him toward his ready mouth, saliva dripping, ready to take a bite –

His howl of the pain suddenly disrupts the cackling, and Soul knows it's not _his._ Instead, he falls to the ground, what feels like every bone _cracking _against the impact. He can't understand, he can't _discern_, what had just happened, but he only finds himself on the floor, with his vision blurring and a new silhouette in his eyes.

She has pigtails.

Of course Maka would be here, Maka – an _Albarn, _a powerful CCG member.

How could he have doubted her? She was _still _an Albarn, she was still perhaps the second-strongest person to fight a ghoul. Relief washes through him as she glares at his attacker, her stance deadly and commanding despite the torn dress she wore.

"Oy, _pigtails,_" Black Star hisses, the ghoul holding his shoulder as it oozes blood. "You're getting in my way, _again_."

"_Black Star,_" she says, her voice deadly, no longer holding any warmth that he'd detected while in the party. "I can't let you do this."

"_Why not?"_

He realizes then, that Blake had always regarded Maka with an air of familiarity. Everything starts to fall into place – of _course _he'd know her. How could he not? She was the daughter of his biggest enemy.

He can't see much, beyond the tears and his failing vision, but she draws herself to full height. She brandishes her Quinque, two structures that looks like wings, and he swears she's an angel. An angel who's come to save him, as he can do nothing but drool as blood oozes from his shoulder.

His personal angel - who could've been his.

She poises forward, and he doesn't quite tell what happens but _something _does – suddenly he can see Black Star's form fly backwards, a feral hiss ripping through his ears. He bares his teeth in a show of blatant defiance; she merely regards him coolly as those wings of hers flex once, reflexively, ready to strike.

"_Pigtails_," he snarls through clenched teeth, and if it weren't for the fact the nickname was so _ridiculous_ Soul might've been more intimidated. Once again, she doesn't react beyond a roll of her shoulder.

"You've fed once tonight, you should leave," she commands. And then her voice dips several octaves. "And if you don't want to _die_, I suggest you pack your bags and start running."

Their exchange doesn't make much sense to him, but his side _hurts_. He honestly doesn't care anymore. He just wants the pain to end, he just wants to forget the hollowness of betrayal, the shock that still coursed through his limbs. He can hear it then: his labored breathing, the way his breaths changed to pants and, slowly, to heaving inhales.

He hears an audible _tch _before he hears someone running, and as he fights to remain conscious and to not go into shock, he can see her wings – his angel's _wings_, vibrant with hues of red and gold and orange.

She whirls on her heel, taking two strides forward to where he lay, vision blurring, on the ground. With a metallic keening, Maka leans down, though her face is obscured by her face.

"What did I tell you?" She says, her voice no longer icy, but just a tinge warm.

Soul can't do much but pant, the pain in his side _throbbing _and his head is a mess. He can feel slim digits skim his injured side, and something about it is bracing, comforting – as if he'd known her his whole life. He tries to adjust, to see her face, to stammer out heartfelt thank yous because she _fucking saved his life_.

From his best friend.

But she shies away from his touch. It's only when he realizes she's trying to hide her face, does he muster the strength to grab her cheeks in her palms. He wrenches her face toward him, and she willingly, stubbornly, lets him.

Her eyes are black.

Blacker than the contact she'd worn earlier - deadlier than he could've imagined. it oss no quinque, no fake kagune that she'd harvested from a ghoul she'd killed. No, it is her _own _kagune - for Maka Albarn is a ghoul.

He drops his hands and he can feel the gurgle of a scream bubble in his throat. Her very black eyes widen as he tries to scramble backwards, and as he let go of the wound on his side he can feel spilled blood splashing on the floor. She only regards him sadly as he curls himself inward protectively, shaking and shivering, words failing him.

She stands up and takes a step toward him; he takes one more back.

"Soul," she says softly, but his name is like poison on her lips and he recoils. "Nothing I said tonight was a lie."

And before he can react – before he can accuse, scream, _run –_ her hand strikes his neck.

He blacks out.


	2. Chapter 2

_Here we are, one year later. _

_There are still questions that will, maybe one day, be answered. But this update should give a bit of a hint to what's happened to Soul, as well as Maka's perspective as the ambiguous villain (if she can be called that), as this covers the events before, during, and after ball as well. _

_Enjoy. _

_Same warnings apply. _

* * *

><p>She stares at the mirror, willing. <em>Willing .<em>But her reflection doesn't change; black and red stares back, veins scoring her face as they pulsate, once, then twice, stretching her ivory skin, stinging helpless tears of frustration along the ridges of her cheeks.

She raises the back of her hand to her mouth, desperately rubbing, trying to rid herself of the acrid tang of blood that still danced along the edges of her tongue. She wishes it's as simple as bad people tasting equally as bad, but the juices - the _lifeforce - _of the man she'd gorged on tastes wonderful. Amazing.

Maka scrubs her lips until they're raw.

She hears a knock on the door. She knows it's Marie beyond the wooden frame. She shakes her head, as if it would stop the woman from barging in, and it takes her more than a few seconds to find her voice. "I'm okay," she manages, and it takes all her effort to focus her mind on her hands, to _stop _herself from crushing the marble in her grip. Like grains of sand.

There's something vaguely along the lines of costume fitting. and in a moment, in a brief moment that - in retrospect - feels a lot more like _herself_, something along the lines of contempt flashes along her brain. She doesn't know if her Papa is foolish, horny, or brave; throwing a Halloween Gala - on the _said _night - was possibly the worst idea he's ever had. Her hands briefly toy with her mask, tossed aside on top of the lowered toilet seat. Would going as the famed _Fallen Angel_be rude? Being linked to the head of the CCG means she had access to all the information files regarding the notable SS rated ghouls in the city. The _Fallen Angel _is aptly named; despite her track record, the ghoul's victims have all been criminals. The _Fallen Angel _was a ghoul through and through, but if there are _any _humans dressed as ghouls tonight, the _Fallen Angel _is perhaps the most respectable one to impersonate.

Besides, she already has the same colour hair, she thinks bitterly.

Instead, she carefully wraps her mask and places it in her messenger bag. With careful detail, she raises her hair into her signature pigtails, each firm pull of her hair elastics thankfully grounding her, dulling the raw ache and _need _for blood, calming her quickened breath and soothing her haphazard heartbeat. She looks into the mirror once more, and _concentrates;_she watches the black pull back from her irises in tendrils, slithering away and leaving pristine white. She takes one more, long, soothing breath, and her irises pulsate once more, shrinking from red to green.

She's okay, Maka thinks, she's okay.

—

The smell of her own burning hair is, at the very least, something she could focus on. The high, reverberating notes of Marie's voice is a welcome distraction, and though she's going on about the music, the arrangements, and surely the decor for the upcoming party, Maka pays no mind. Instead, she focuses on being perfectly still, lest the hair curler slip and fall against her skin - where it surely wouldn't leave a mark. Her hair falls into perfect ringlets around her, bouncing at the weight of gravity as Marie lets each section of hair free from the iron.

"Your Papa didn't tell me what you're dressing as," Marie continues. Maka can feel the kind smile on the woman's lips. Even if a ghoul had managed to take possession of her eye, it didn't stop the woman from being radiant - that is, when she wasn't out on a mission with the other ghouls. Out in the field, Marie is perhaps one of the top Investigators, but even she couldn't return what was lost. Perhaps it's a blessing to be so closely acquainted with the Chief; it means that Marie wouldn't be on the streets tonight.

The attachment Maka felt for this woman would certainly lead to her downfall.

The silence catches up to her and she realizes Marie is patiently waiting for a response. Maka shrugs, careful not to disrupt the woman's work. "I'm not sure yet. Papa bought me all these gowns, I'd _have _to wear one."

Her sarcasm reaches Marie's well-toned ears, and the woman lets a well-intentioned chuckle burst through her lips. "I think they're lovely. I'm sure you'll think of something." Maka says nothing as the curling iron continues to pull through her hair. An idea sparks, but it is so ridiculous that she nearly curls her lips in response. But her hesitation is quickly caught by Marie, so fast - so accurately.

Maka swallows. "It's a dumb idea."

"I'm sure it isn't," Marie soothes, and a gentle hand kneads against her forearm.

"… a one-eyed ghoul."

The silence is strong, now, and at least Marie has the foresight to remove the curler before it burns clean through her ashen locks. Maka turns as she feels her hair release, catching the woman's surprise before she has a chance to hide it. She can see the thoughts running through Marie's head, and she quickly realizes her mistake: while ghouls may not be a secret to society, the fact that there may be a one-eyed ghoul isn't exactly common knowledge. Certainly not common knowledge from the daughter of an over-protective head of the CCG; but it's exactly the fact that she _is,_and given her thirst for knowledge, that it - in retrospect - isn't such a weird piece of trivia that she knows.

Marie seems to be thinking along the same lines, for her expression softens. Maka can feel the lecture bubbling on her caregiver's tongue. "I told you it's a dumb idea," she says quickly, but the damage is done.

Marie hums thoughtfully. "I actually don't think it's that bad." She clears her throat and reiterates. "Maybe it's a good thing. People dress as fables and myths all the time." Maka can hear how delicately Marie chooses her words, and she can't help the small smile of affection that spreads on her lips.

God, she's flirting with death every day.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea at all," Marie decides, and then the woman mirrors her smile, warm, maternal. "It would certainly mean you can wear one of your father's dresses. And I know Stein could fix you with a contact."

The fact that Maka already had a connection toa costumer dies on her tongue, instead she nods once graciously. Marie offers another smile and taps her on the thigh with one, battle-worn finger. "The party does begin in a few hours - but now you don't need to panic, right?"

"We'll see if the corset fits," Maka adds half-heartedly, but she's rewarded with a tinkling laugh before the woman presses a fleeting kiss on the crown of her head. And then she's sashaying out the door, and Maka's eyes follow her retreating figure. Part of her desperately wants to warn her not to go out; but she knows Marie can handle herself, better than almost anyone.

Maka sours.

This Gala will surely give her a headache.

—

Maka nearly snorts as she surveys the crowd below the banister.

A Halloween Gala, and yet everyone is dressed in the same lush gowns as she is. Masks upon masks litter the ground, as if somehow the invitations had forgone the theme of the party and had said "masquerade" instead. She doesn't quite understand human aristocracy, but for a second her mind lingers to the mask she has, hidden carefully under the seam of her bag upstairs in her room. She shakes the thoughts from her mind, crossing the top balcony before descending down the cascades of stairs.

She can see Marie off to the side by her husband, talking in low voices. For a moment, Maka's _very _aware of the contact in her eye, handcrafted by the man opposite to her caregiver. The woman lapses momentarily to give her a thumbs up, nudging her partner. He raises his head and she can feel his eyes rake over her body; a familiar chill runs through her spine - she never quite liked the uncanny ability of Stein's to sniff out a ghoul - but if anything the corner of his lip twitches upward and he gives her a low nod.

Safe. For now.

Maka's eyes scan the crowd, looking, looking. She recognizes other members of the CCG, as well as several other members that she's talked to at least once. Her father had certainly introduced her to many before, but the names were all lost as she tries to recall who they are. And then a woman with the same, ashy hair strides forward, an arm already extended outwards in greeting.

"Anya," Maka says firmly. The woman stops and gives a faint curtsy. Only the small, faint tips of two triangles atop her head give away her costume; a regal black dress is familiar on her body, the mask as well - save for the upward curls on the corners of her eyes.

"Maka," she says pleasantly. "I wasn't going to come, but I had to for you."

"I know you hate parties," Maka says amicably, and the woman laughs into the back of her hand.

"Well, no one I know will be here from school. Why not?" And then her eyes travel to Maka's face, almost quizzically. "And you're dressed as a one-eyed ghoul?"

Maka nods once more, and she trills another laugh. "How cheeky of you."

"I'm glad you think so," Maka replies, and the truth in her words seem to touch the woman a bit.

"The food too is simply exquisite," the other blonde continues. Maka can't help but to marvel at human aristocracies' ability to keep talking about _nothing_. The woman steps aside, the crinolined bulb of her skirt brushing along with her. "You must try some."

Maka lifts her eyes, following the space that Anya graciously provided. She's long since trained herself from wincing at the sight of food, but nothing about the lavishly decorated table appeals to her. She's made a smart decision to eat earlier; coughing up food is always easier if she's already digested beforehand.

And then, a mass of white hair catches her eye.

"An Evans?" She can't help but to say, but mostly to herself.

Anya follows her gaze, her blue eyes crinkling in thought. "Not any Evans. I believe that's Soul."

The name reverberates through her core. _Soul Evans. _She can remember the proposal meeting, when the two of them were sat down in squashed chairs as her Papa and his Mama began to discuss. She remembers his uncomfortable figure, the way he glared at her when their eyes caught. And then, four years later, he'd separated from his family.

Were they technically engaged? _Are they still?_ Something about the thought amuses her, and she gives Anya a polite pat on the arm. She can see from her peripherals that her blue eyes widen, her mouth falling open. "Are you going to talk to him? I saw him turning away conversation earlier."

"I am," Maka responds, refusing to lift her gaze as he strides down the table, evidently searching for something that wasn't as obnoxious as fois gras and pate. "I must attend to my guests." She can tell Anya isn't buying it - and for a moment, something akin to relief washes over her; as cognizant as Anya is, at least she herself has always been overlooked. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"I hope you mean tonight, and not at school," Anya says with a faint grin on her face, but she releases her grip on Maka's hand. She gives a polite curtsy that Anya mirrors, and Maka's careful not to brush too closely against her friend as she strides past her.

He's standing by the table, and for a moment her heart leaps into her throat. _Red eyes. _Piercing. She'd forgotten the colour of his irises - but the rest of them isn't as telltale as hers could be. And then she notices the makeshift fangs, affixed to his teeth in a way that probably wasn't comfortable. His hands reach to his nose - in another, surprisingly comforting gesture, for Maka wants nothing more but to imitate him, to prevent the terrible stench of rotting flesh and paint emanating from the 'food' before her from reaching her nostrils entirely.

The wry smile that fixes itself on her face, she realizes, isn't entirely a charade afterall.

"These things not to your tastes, either?"

—

Maka Albarn knows she isn't capable of love.

How could she be? With _who she was, _she doesn't even know who her own parents _are_. But something compels her to tell him to leave, something tells her that he'd be in danger. From who? _Maybe from her._

She's never felt this kind of attachment - beyond familiarity - before, and she wonders if it's because they actually might still be _engaged _that drives her to make him leave.

She allows a bit of her predatory instinct to colour her voice. She lets her eyes darken just a _smidge _as she speaks. She can see his eyes widen in response, as the false fangs shift just enough to no longer be aligned with his teeth. She hopes she inspires a bit of fear inside of him, the prey knowing it's being hunted - if it makes him swifter on his heels, then all the better.

For the first time, she's a little happy that she's the head of the CCG's daughter. Maybe it'll make people actually _listen_to her.

But she isn't beside him right now.

Suddenly, irrationally, fear takes over. He's a soft, squishy human - it doesn't take a particularly strong ghoul to break someone who's untrained. She's heard of his guard before, but he was nowhere in sight, and she believed that a man like Mifune would never allow his protege to go free. He could be in danger, she realizes, and before she knows what she's doing, she's fleeing up the steps of the ballroom, quickly towards her room.

The door flies open with more force than she expects, her bag still left off to the side where she'd laid it down. A lone stool sits in the middle of the room, the curling iron still draped around the seat - thankfully unplugged.

Maka strings her messenger bag back over her shoulder, uncaring that it pulls on Marie's perfect curls and that her dress dislodges awkwardly. Without a second thought, she carefully peels the contact from her eye, blinking furiously to wash away the protesting tears at the intrusion. She flings the worn item into the bin and flees down the stairs once more, a few heads turning at the sight of the clashing dress and bag, but it's only one wrist that snakes around her wrist.

"Maka," Marie's voice was low. "Where are you going?"

For a brief moment, resentment flashes through her. Not because Marie stopped her, but because her Papa _didn't. _He's nowhere in sight, even as her eyes wildly dance from one end of the room to the other. But she pushes the misplaced anger, because the woman beside her is wholly concerned. _Like her Mama._

"Soul Evans," she breathes back. "He left and," she sucks in a breath. "I'm worried."

Marie's grip tightens. "No."

"I have to," Maka responds. She tries not to bounce on her heels and she focuses all her strength on not ripping her arm out of the woman's grasp. "He's in danger - it's _tonight_-"

"So are you," Marie says adamantly, and for the first time, Maka understands just why her tame caregiver was a squad leader for the CCG. Her one eye is blazing, her lips are pulled tight, and for a moment Maka swears she can see the skin around Marie's eyepatch wrinkle, a reminder of the same consequence the woman had, on this night, several years ago.

"I can take care of myself, Marie." Maka lowers her voice to be as bracing, as soothing as possible. "My _Papa _is the Head." And then, even quieter, "I need to know he's okay."

The woman softens her grip, and for a moment her expression twists into one of remorse. But then a hand falls on the woman's shoulder, and another one extends towards Maka. "She'll be alright," is the low, raspy voice of Stein. "Don't forget, they're technically betrothed."

Maka can feel the heat score across her cheeks.

Her eyes fall to the object in Stein's hand - a small, compact rod. "A quinque?"

Stein's soul-piercing stare aligns with hers. "It's not the best one, but it should help you get away."

Good, a case may have given her away. She holds Stein's stare once more, and a part of her actually recoils a little. His eyes lack the dulling fog that had previously made them at least approachable - now he was the predator. And she just understood how dangerous the couple is to her, when they'd always appeared as friendly family friends and coworkers before.

Maka tries hard not to bristle as she grasps the item in his hand, stowing it in her bag.

"I love you, Maka," Marie says, and her voice is so _warm, so soothing, _only bolstered when in contrast to Stein's hardness. She can see that the woman is genuinely worried, and for a brief second, her hand goes to her handiwork that is Maka's hair. "Come back quickly, okay?"

For a moment, all Maka wants to do is settle into the woman's arms - even though they've ended several lives of her kind.

"I will," she murmurs, and she tries her hardest to meet her eyes.

—

He's on the floor, and he's bleeding, and he's crumpled, and he's not _moving._

Terror surges through her body, before she settles back up. The ghoul is perched on top of a banister, one arm gripping the other where her kagune had torn through his flesh. He's seething, scarlet red dripping in the waning moonlight, and she doesn't have to hear his voice to know who it is.

"_Black Star."_

She turns to the bloodied, unmoving mess behind him. "I can't let you do this."

"_Why not?"_

_Because he's your friend. Because he's an Evans. Because they'll know he's gone missing. Because he's my fiance._

His voice isn't driven by hunger, that much is for sure. Maka can't begin to think about who else he's fed on tonight - for she knew that no other ghoul took as much pleasure as he did when it came to terrorizing civilians during Halloween.

She doesn't stop her kagune from manifesting - two large iridescent wings that beat once as she flexes. They stretch from her back, quivering with effort, and she lunges forward. The spikes form and shoot like bullets at him, each release feeding to her bloodlust, her _anger,_as she watches with grim satisfaction as Black Star falters back, curses spewing from his mouth.

Maka straightens as the ghoul before her curls forward, inky tendrils unfurling from his kakahou lodged deep into his back. They thrash once, a loud crash echoing in the alleyway. "_Pigtails,"_he snarls, and the familiar insult is easy to brush off. After all, the ghoul always loved gloating to her how well _he's _hiding from the CCG - how he's so _close _to the Evans that got away. How he's doing a better time under pressure than she was, under the nose of her _father._

This time, the nickname means much more.

She doesn't try to disguise the manner in which her wings flex, beating once. A dull part of her acknowledges her wings stretching backward, the familiar pinpricks of heat dotting her spine as they form bullets once more. She rolls her shoulders back, trying to keep her voice cool and aloof. "You've already fed once tonight, you should leave."

He doesn't back off, though, and he only sinks lower into his haunches. The _rinkaku _kagune tenses, quivering, as if assessing where to strike, where to most effectively pierce to reach her _ukaku. _Maka breathes and leans forward - a fresh surge of power bursting from the tips of her shoulder blades. The refuelling had a purpose, then. She let her kagune spread, the corners of her peripherals glowing in shades of red and yellow and green, the body of each wing spiked.

She inhales once, and layers her voice as thickly as she can. After all, regardless if Soul is compromised tonight or not, she can't let this go unreported to her father.

"And if you don't want to die, then I suggest you pack your bags and start running."

The realization dawns on his face, so fast it's nearly comical, but then he pulls his lips back and lets another snarl burst from his teeth. And then Black Star turns on his heels, bounding away with the aid of his kagune - and then it was still, save for the spluttering and fading gasps of breaths behind her.

Maka turns before she can even think - she takes two long strides and kneels beside the fading man. "What did I tell you?" Her whisper isn't intentional, but she can hardly stop her voice from cracking. Just as involuntarily, her fingers stretch and skim across the side of his jacket, the black disguising the colour but the wetness of the fabric a giveaway to his injury. She does her best to ignore the smell of his blood - enticing, especially since she'd used her kagune. He shifts a little under her touch, and she realizes his eyes are raising upward.

Before she realizes, she recoils slightly, hoping the messy and unruly mess that were her ringlets could at least obscure her face. And then, with surprising vigour, his grip secures around her chin - with just enough strength to surprise her, but the weakness of it otherwise enough to make her heart drop.

He pulls her towards him, and in a way, she lets him. She lets her head turn - she almost _wills _her head to turn - because she's not _safe_. She's not _human _and he can't _be here_. He's her prey, and as much as it pained her to admit it, the smell of his flesh is enticing, enough to know kakugan is still active, to know that her eyes still seared black back into him.

He registers _that _first. Maka can tell as a wheeze bursts from his lips and what should have been a yelp only gurgled in his throat. With sudden effort - with sudden _instinct -_his hands grapple backwards, nails scratching against the rough surface of cobblestone as he lurches backwards. And then he curls inwards protectively, _shaking_, and if he had control of his voice, he'd probably be whispering to himself deliriously, too.

She'd seen that reaction far too often for her liking.

She steps forward - she wants to touch him, to tell him that he's safe. She wants to do _something_. But he moves back another step, staggering, nearly falling over.

His name dies on her lips.

If anything, the one thing she knew only reaffirms itself in her mind: she is a _monster._

"Soul," she tries again, and he jumps, his once-confident red eyes reduced to nothing but tears and fright. "Nothing I said tonight was a lie."

Briefly, her mind wonders what her life would've been like, if he'd accepted the proposal. Would they be wed already? Would he have known anyways?

She doesn't let the thoughts leave her mind as she extends a hand. And then she steels it, raises it back, and strikes it hard against his neck.

He crumples before her.

—

She can't stay, she can't stay, _she can't stay._

Her hand shakes as she reaches for his phone. Without hesitating, she smashes it against the wall before her, shattering it into several tiny pieces, and she grinds the remnants in her palm, reducing the rest to rubble in her fingertips.

Maka reaches down to her gown and rips, the bulbous skirt coming apart as simply as if she'd been tearing paper. She pauses, before pressing the scraps of her dress against his blood, staining the white to a deep, dark red.

She tears off a sleeve for good measure.

Scattering the fabric around the scene, she pauses - and then reaches to her where her kagune had struck, wrapping her hands around each spike and wincing as the material scores into her flesh. she watches as the appendage disintegrates in her hands, scattering into the crisp, night air.

_Her quinque._

She pulls the rod from her backpack. She sees it then, just a small bug, rigged along the ridge of the weapon. A tracker. She grimaces and activates the _quinque_, a long pole extended forward, the ends supple and mobile - made from a _rinkaku_, as well. Maka whips it once lashing it at the side, and the _quinque _unfurls, like a whip, cracking against the ground.

She strikes the buildings around her for good measure, watching rubble fall before her like rain, before laying the weapon upright.

With one, heavy sigh, her kagune flexes, and then pierces it, into one, then two, then a dozen pieces.

Maka leaves the bug intact, just in case.

There was one last thing to do.

Her hand hesitates on her own phone - and for a moment, she wants to send a message - to Anya, to Marie, to her _Papa._

She steels her will and dials another number, instead. It rings twice, before the sound of loud music, the deep reverberating bass a complete contrast to the serene classical ballads from the party, answers her.

"_Hello?"_

"It's me," she says lowly.

"_Are you alright?"_

"No," she answers truthfully. She eyes the mass of white hair and red blood before her. He's still breathing - that's a good sign. "Soul Evans is here. We're at the corner of Jack and Ripper street, in the alleyway. I need you to take him home. _Home-home._"

The voice on the other side hesitates. "_Maka, if you-"_

"I didn't," she responds as patiently as she can. "Look, he's in shock, and he's _dying_, and if you don't get here _now_he _will_die."

The voice pauses once more. "_… Okay. And you?"_

It's her turn to pause now. "I don't know. But he _can't _look for me." She can hear the other side take a sharp inhale, but she interrupts before she could. "I'll try to keep in touch, okay? Thanks. I really owe you one, Liz."

And then she hangs up.

Maka lets another shaky breath loose. Her bag is still perched on the side, contents askew. Good. She tucks a hand inside her bag, groping around the bottom of the seam. Her hand curls around the object. With a slow, deliberate drag, she pulls out her mask - the _Fallen Angel._

With one, long sigh, she drags the mask over her face.

She pulls her phone up once more, thumbing in a number she's memorized.

The call is answered, but no voice is on the other side.

"Kid, I've been compromised."

….

"_We'll meet you at 13th street."_

And with that, Maka crushes her phone into dust, it too scattering into the breeze.


End file.
